


into the wasp's nest

by p394



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Unrequited Love, i love the great game, this is going to be a long ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 09:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16302407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p394/pseuds/p394
Summary: Sherlock's rivalry with Moriarty will reveal to John things he had no idea existed.





	into the wasp's nest

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really have any betas, so all mistakes are my own! Feedback is always appreciated!

His light steps as he walked around the edges of the pool gave away his excitement. Sherlock Holmes fingered the USB drive in his suit pocket, delicately, for about half a second.  His impassive face starkly contrasted the glittering enthusiasm in his eyes; the pool was dimly lit, making his expressions difficult to discern.

A light flickered, better illuminating Sherlock’s face through the darkness, and with it a politely bemused expression. He plucked the jump drive from his pocket and held it behind his back.

Pale fingers squeezed the memory stick and he felt the hairs on his neck prickle. There was a diluted compulsion: run from the building, return the plans to Mycroft, and pray for absolution. Luckily, Sherlock had learned to ignore those impulses.

He took his time as if he needed to observe the room; though the chlorine did impede on his senses, Sherlock was still able to make out a faint trace of Moriarty’s scent. Then, he presented his trump card, the Bruce-Parington Plans, and held it up for the world to see. His tall form preening. “Bought you a gift.”

“A little miss-you-present.” Sherlock explained, sharp gaze narrowing. “This is what it’s all been for, isn’t it?”

There’s a deliberate pause. He allowed Moriarty the chance to speak up yet there was nothing. “All the little puzzles, making me dance…” Sherlock continued, imagining that the silence stemmed from Moriarty fractured pride. “All to distract me from this.”

“I’m disappointed,” Sherlock mused, almost to himself. He’d waited over a century for Moriarty’s reemergence and the continuation of their game, but after six months this one’s already on its final act. C’est la vie.

At least a winner would be clear. No decade long argument which reverted them both to red-faced children. (Moriarty shouldn’t have stood so close to the edge of the cliff (( _Sherlock should’ve pulled away faster_.)) ).

Without a response, Sherlock looked around almost imperceptively. After a clank of metal, one of the doors slid open. He spun around in alarm and caught sight of the small man, with good posture, wrapped in a warm winter coat.

The thousand conflicting sensations that struck him, in which terror and wonder were predominant, had been unexpected.

“Evening.” John had a low, easy voice, hands dug firmly into pockets, yet his eyes were unresponsive. ( _Glamoured_.) He reeks of Moriarty, and it makes Sherlock’s nose crinkle every so slightly upwards. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

There was an iciness, sinking, sickening of his heart. “John,” Sherlock stared helplessly back at the vacuous face, too shocked to react, thinking, stupidly, that this wasn’t playing _fair_! Glamour was cheating. More or less. “What the hell - ”

“Bet you never saw this coming.” A grin spread across John’s face, so wide it crinkled the skin by his lifeless eyes.

Sherlock bristled, and took a few tentative steps. He furrowed his brows in concentration, trying to search for John’s mind. A desperate attempt to sever or weaken the glamour. And for a moment … Sherlock almost had it. But was forced out and left exhausted.

“Oh come on, Sherlock.” John quirked an eyebrow, with a smirk stretching over his lips. “It is a bit funny, isn’t it?”

Moriarty is enjoying this, and it made Sherlock’s blood boil.

“What would you like me to make him say next?” John asks, calmly.

A nerve had been plucked particularly hard, and Sherlock began looking erratically around the room; he was anxious, impatient, and felt particularly small.

Moriarty was impatient too, but in a different way. He made sure to project that onto John. “Gottle O’Geer, Gottle O’Geer, Gottle O’Geer - ”

“Stop that.” Sherlock snapped fiercely while continuing his slow approach.

The bastard goes on as if he hadn’t said anything. “It _is_ a nice touch; the pool; the ambiance.” He knew Moriarty could have a full conversation with himself if it meant getting a rise. “Should’ve anticipated it backfiring.” John was watching Sherlock especially close now. Pale eyes stared back. “You don’t even know if I’m here. Might’ve just been smelling him.”

There’s a moment before his concession, Sherlock considered with startling clarity how Moriarty manipulates him. “Where are you?”

Diagonal from the pair, there was a heavy clunk and another door opened. James Moriarty stood in the doorway, well dressed despite the late hour, treating Sherlock to an indulgent smile.

Sherlock’s eyelids flicker in memory. He’d seen that look before.

Deliberate precision was in every step Moriarty took forward, with it a rather serpentine swagger. He considered over Sherlock with dark eyes. “I gave you my number.” He said eventually. “I thought you might call.”

His smug little face made Sherlock want to roll his eyes.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket,” Moriarty made a point of dragging his gaze down Sherlock’s body, along an unnerving smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Or are you just pleased to see me?”

Sherlock looked upon Moriarty, in an attitude of the profoundest attention, and kept his head high. His (John’s) gun had been for appearances, allegedly, and with a fluid motion, Sherlock reached for the small of his back where the pistol had been hidden. One-handedly, he aimed for Moriarty’s head. “Both.”

That provoked a minute reaction from John; the dead eyes which caught a glint of metal were now piercing Sherlock like daggers. This wasn’t surprising, yet he allowed it to happen. Hated that. To most vampires the disposability of humans was … debatable, but thralls were intended as cattle and cannon fodder. Moriarty was deliberately trying to work him up.

“I missed this, didn’t you?” Moriarty prods.

“Horribly.” Sherlock replied evenly.

Moriarty smiled. “Worth the wait.”

Sherlock hummed, no point in arguing. Instead, he puts his other hand on the bottom of the magazine to steady his aim before releasing the safety. John’s attention was now fully on him.

“You’ve been a bit of a pain, I will admit.” Moriarty sounded amused. “And I find myself wondering: is this worth it?” He stalked closer towards the two, bobbing his head in a reptilian manner. “You’ve cost me a few good clients and not to mention thirty-thousand quid.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, his voice satisfied.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.” Jim replied.

“Yes you did.”

“Okay,” Moriarty shrugged his shoulders with a cheeky grin. “Yeah, I did.”  He stopped and swerved to face John, and with quick steps, Moriarty now hovered. “I must ask.” He said, frowning. “What _do_ you see in him? I’ve been in his head and well…it’s just not that exciting.” He froze, closed his eyes and overexaggerated an inhale, chest visibly rising. “But he does smell delicious.”

Sherlock watched Moriarty’s fingers scrape over John’s scalp, a violently intimate gesture. Reflexively, John angled his neck and offered up soft flesh. Sherlock could hear John’s accelerated heart beat and wanted to believe it was from fear; any notion otherwise made him shudder.

 Moriarty hardly got a chance to extend his fangs.

“Stop.” Sherlock demanded, quickly revealing the memory stick hidden in his palm. He’s showed his hand. He doesn’t care. “Take it.”

“Wonderful!” Moriarty exclaimed. He had a wicked half-grin on his face, eyes gleaming when he pulled away from John. Moriarty moved with casual elegance, extending an expectant hand. “The _Bruce-Parington Plans_.” He said softly, eyelids lowered.

Sherlock had difficulty dropping the memory stick into Moriarty’s deathly hand, pale eyes revealing his frustration.

Moriarty flourished it at Sherlock, but his expression soured. “Boring.” He sighed, rolling his head back, and pitching the memory stick into the water (as if the entire country hadn’t been after it). “I could’ve gotten these from anywhere - ” He’s frustrated. “Did you really _think_ that was all there was to this, stupid?” Moriarty spat the words with a familiar ferocity, then he paused. His eyes flickered shut and he exhaled deeply, rubbing his temples. He opened his mouth to speak again, but John interrupted him.

His attack was a surprise and entirely unprecedented. Neither of them could’ve expected it. Somehow, John managed rise from Moriarty’s glamour and clang to lucidity by his fingernails. John hooked an arm around Moriarty, attempting a feeble chokehold. He hissed through gritted teeth and barked in desperation. “Sherlock – run!”

Sherlock stared fascinatingly with flashing eyes. “Remarkable,” he muttered to himself, rubbing emaciated fingers slowly along his bottom lip, pistol still lazily aimed for Moriarty’s head.

“Oh – _oh_!” Moriarty laughed. “Good! Very good! I’m beginning to see why you like having him around.” He leaned into John. “I’m impressed, really.”

Au contraire, Sherlock thought. He could see Moriarty fighting to keep the rage from showing. After all, a human had managed to break his glamour. Sherlock smiled against his fingers. How embarrassing.

“Down boy.” Moriarty demanded with a forced lightness in his voice. Obediently, John went slack and released him.

Sherlock imagined he saw a look of agony before John’s eyes went dead once more.

“Westwood,” Moriarty said smoothing down his suit, with downcast eyes that looked a bit annoyed. “You were just so … _ambitious_ when you were younger. But you’ll get it back.” He fixed Sherlock with his icy stare. “You’ll learn again. Soon.”

“Oh, and let me guess if I don’t.” Sherlock replied. “I get killed.”

“Kill you.” Moriarty cringed at the thought. “Mmm, no. Don’t be obvious.” He added in an afterthought, “Well, I mean. I’m going to kill you anyway, someday.” Moriarty stretched a smile, leaning towards Sherlock like some sort of conspirator. “Don’t want to rush it, though.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

“If you don’t learn, Sherlock,” Moriarty began, Sherlock stared flatly back. “I’ll burn you.” He promised with infinite calm, gaze faraway. “I’ll burn the _heart_ out of you.”

Sherlock slowly blinked. “I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one.” The barrel of the gun was now the only thing that separated the men. Not a secure boundary since Moriarty knew his bluff; the gun was never going to be fired tonight.

“Oh,” The corners of Moriarty’s lips twitched, and he continued in a strangely tender voice. “We both know that’s not quite true.”

Sherlock’s face seemed to darken. 

“Well,” Moriarty finally said, breaking eye contact. “I better be off. Nice seeing you, really. You should brush your hair, I liked it so much better before. It’s too - ” He scrunched his face and spread his hands. “Now.”

The stoicism of Sherlock’s face faltered. There was nothing wrong with his hair.

Moriarty inclined his head back at John and sighed, wiping his thumb across teeth. “Guess I should give you that back. I’m too busy for a pet right now.” His dark eyes hungrily looked over Sherlock once more. “Ciao, Sherlock.” And with too-loud shoes, Moriarty went to the nearest door.

Sherlock steps mimicked Moriarty’s to move closer to John without being heard. “Catch you … later.” He replied, gun still aimed.

“No, you won’t!” Moriarty sang, and with that he was gone.

All of that was over by the time John woken up from the glamour. His blonde lashes blinked blearily with eyes attempting to focus. He shook off from his spirit what was assumed a dream. “Sherlock?” He sounded surprised.

John’s bright eyes returned and Sherlock felt a sensation in his chest, like his heart smiled.

With Moriarty gone Sherlock moved quickly, and in a frenzied manner ripped the winter coat off John with a gentle violence. “Are you alright? Are you alright?” Sherlock asked hurriedly, not giving John time to respond but forcibly rolling up his sleeve. “Did he bite you – Did he bite you?”

“Sherlock,” John took his wrist with warm fingers. Sherlock must have looked worse than he thought because next the heat of John’s hand was on his cheek. “What’s going on? Are you alright?” Sherlock huffed a laugh.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied under his breath. John just returned from an intense delirium, yet still tended to him. Sherlock wanted to lean into the warmth. _Always the doctor_ , he thought. “You’re asking me if I’m alright? Do you even know where you are?”

“Well,” John started sheepishly; Sherlock’s eyes were tinged with exhaustion. They looked years older, it made him look vulnerable. “I think in this situation my wellbeing might depend on yours.” Sherlock raised his brow. “You _are_ ripping my clothes off at a darkened swimming pool.” Then, John smiled with a face so full of compassion. “People might talk.”

It felt like sunshine was radiating out of him and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back. “People do little else.” He corrected.

Like a ragdoll, John’s body went limp and legs gave under his own body weight. Sherlock wraps around him, holding John up. He’s strong enough for them both but bit of panic rose in the back of Sherlock’s throat. “John!” He exclaimed, stroking fingers through John’s hair to support his head.

Moriarty couldn’t have just simply left John’s mind intact. 


End file.
